


the empty sky beneath my feet

by Edgebug



Category: Almost Human
Genre: AU, M/M, Making Out, Wingfic, everyone has wings, preening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edgebug/pseuds/Edgebug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your wings are both perfectly functional, Detective Kennex," John's MX says blankly, "what keeps you from flight?"</p><p>4k words of self-indulgent wing!fic, that's basically it</p>
            </blockquote>





	the empty sky beneath my feet

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for this  
> there are no redeeming qualities  
> sorry

 

“Your wings are both perfectly functional, Detective Kennex,” John's MX says blankly, “what keeps you from flight?” John grits his teeth and doesn't answer. “Your synthetic wing is not even properly calibrated for flight,” the MX continues. “Flightlessness is a marked disadvantage for a police officer. You should--”

 

“Drop it,” John snaps. “Drop the subject.” The MX pauses and for a moment John relaxes.

 

Then the robot says something about how John couldn't _possibly_ have been in that crappy part of town for noodles, and John calmly opens the passenger-side door and shoves the MX out. It bounces down the road and underneath a semi-truck with a flurry of sparks and synthetic feathers and John regrets nothing.

 

-

 

The thing is that flightlessness isn't unheard of. John's mother had been born with wings far too small to sustain flight. Plenty of assistive devices and prosthetics exist but they are expensive; and it's not as if wingflight is used for serious transportation. Some commute to and from work by wing, but only if they live close by their place of business. There really isn't much room to spread your wings properly downtown, anyway. John tries to convince himself that he isn't missing much.

 

-

 

When Dorian wakes up it's with a gasp of breath, his eyes going blue; he sits up and stretches—his wings are silver-gray and faintly metallic and more disheveled than John has ever seen a pair of wings, to be honest—fixes his eyes on John and _compliments_ him, introduces himself.

 

He's beautiful and John finds that he can't be too hostile. “Update your files and let's go,” he says gruffly, turning on his heel and waiting for the android to follow.

 

-

 

“You know what I need?” Dorian says one morning as they're driving to the precinct, and John gives an amused half-smile.

 

“A kick in the ass?” he asks, mischief evident on his tone. Dorian rolls his eyes.

 

“I need to go flying,” Dorian says, not even acknowledging John's cheekiness. “I haven't been flying since I was reactivated.”

 

John blinks. “That's not true, man. I've seen you fly. You used your wings when you chased down that perp last week, I saw you.”

 

Dorian shakes his head. “No, no, that's hardly flying. That's glorified jumping, John. You can't really fly out in the city, man, you have to go somewhere deserted. You know what I mean.”

 

A pause. “Yeah,” John says. “Yeah, I do.”

 

-

 

The feathers of John's synthetic wing always tend to stick up on end, or out at odd angles. He combs them down and preens them back into place as best he can but they don't stay, and today? Today is a bad wing day. It itches like crazy and periodically the wing beeps or speaks _feathers out of alignment for flight,_ and John wants to hit something.

 

Dorian lays eyes on his wings, raises an eyebrow, almost a mused. “I have a fix for that,” he says, and John groans.

 

“If you say olive oil, I'm going to--”

 

“Your synthetic wing doesn't produce any oil itself, John, that's what helps keep organic wings in place,” Dorian says. “Your feathers are dry, man. No wonder you look like an orphaned baby bird.”

 

 _“Baby bird?!”_ John protests, and Dorian just grins.

 

“Trust me. Synthetic feathers like olive oil,” he says.

 

“You're a little shit,” John grumbles, “ _orphaned baby bird,_ you're a _jackass_ , Dorian.”

 

The olive oil does help, though, he tries it when he gets home that night; just enough to dampen his fingertips, combed through his synthetic primaries and secondaries. The feathers instantly lay flatter, smoother; and John closes his eyes as for once, he can almost pretend that the feathers he's preening are real. He can almost pretend that he's not broken.

 

-

 

John's synthetic wing doesn't come off. It was anchored so closely to his bones and organic muscles that it cannot be remove easily by the user; John charges it at night by plugging it in. Being unable to remove it also means, however, that he cannot reach to oil up the feathers nearest his spine. They rub, itchy and infuriating and dry, at he back of his shirt—but he has nobody to preen them for him, and he sure as hell isn't about to hire a bangbot or something just to help him comb through his feathers. How pathetic would that be?

 

-

 

John often has nightmares. In his sleep he relives the explosion, relives Martin's death, relives the pain and shock of losing two of his limbs. Most of the time the nightmares are from the explosion but there's another recurring one.

 

Sometimes he dreams that he spreads his wings and takes to the sky and for a few seconds it's perfect and it's everything he remembers flight being; then the dream takes an abrupt shift and his right wing, his synthetic wing, breaks. Becomes immobile completely. It fails him and it speaks with the voice of the MX that he holds accountable for Martin's death.

 

_Catastrophic machine failure. Shutting down._

 

Sometimes he wakes up before he hits the ground. Sometimes he doesn't.

 

Invariably, he wakes up terrified and gasping, both wings tensed and shaking and his synthetic one beeping furiously, _synthetic not calibrated, synthetic not calibrated, synthetic not calibrated._

 

-

 

It's near three in the morning by the time they get out of the precinct. It was an awful case, truly awful, but it was _over_ , all the paperwork done and over with. Dorian looks stressed, John can see it in the set of his shoulders and the weariness in his eyes.

 

“C'mon,” John says, “I've got an idea.”

 

“Does it involve taking me back to Rudy's for the night?” Dorian mumbles, “I'm ready to not be conscious for a while.”

 

“Trust me, you're going to like this. Come on, into the car.”

 

-

 

John knows they can't be here during the day. Every hippie flightfreak from Rochester to NYC would be at this park during the day, especially in this pretty weather—there wouldn't be any room to fly at all; but now it's late and out in this open field they're the only ones around.

 

“What's up, John?” Dorian asks, puzzled, “what did you want to show me?”

 

“You said you wanted to spread your wings. Here's the perfect opportunity,” John says. “Consider it a thank-you for the olive oil tip.” Dorian's grin could light up the world; and John tries hard not to think anything stupid, like how downright pretty Dorian is to look at.

 

Dorian spreads his wings, unfolds them. They're a shiny silver-gray, they're incredibly wide and with one powerful movement Dorian is airborne. John shoves his hands in his pockets and watches as Dorian climbs, he can hear the android's giddy laughter as he turns lazy loops in the air, making wide circles across the park's flightspace and John can see his wings and face lighting up blue even from here.

 

He's beautiful, and John tries not to do something stupid like fall in love.

 

Eventually Dorian does land, right back were he left, beside John. He gives his wings a shake and folds them up, a grin on his face and lights dancing down his cheek and, fiber-optic, across the ridges of his wings and his primary plumage. “What're you doing down here?” he asks, sounding breathless and exhilarated, “Come on, man, take a few turns around the park with me?”

 

He knew Dorian would ask, but he still doesn't like it. At least he's prepared for the question. “Flying isn't my thing anymore,” John says shortly, hands still shoved into his pockets.

 

Dorian tilts his head slightly, puzzled for a split second before things seem to fall into place for him. “Oh,” he says, and John braces for the inevitable pity he gets when he tells people he's flightless now, the eternal _oh no, I'm so sorry_ or _what happened_ or _but your wings look so normal!_

 

He gets none of that. “Well, your feathers aren't exactly in shape for it anyway, man,” Dorian says on a soft chuckle, “seriously, when's the last time someone's preened them for you, 'cause it looks like it's been about two million years.”

 

John rolls his eyes but the exasperated effect is ruined by the smile that plays, unbidden, over his features. “Yeah, well. I haven't exactly had anyone to help me out.”

 

“You could pay someone to do it,” Dorian says. “Lots of people pay for grooming.”

 

“Hell no. That's just _sad_ ,” John replies.

 

“Yeah, fair enough.” Dorian's wings twitch and unfold again, just slightly, his primary feathers spreading like they itch for flight. “Mind if I take another few turns before we go back?”

 

“Go on, get off the ground, man. Take all the time you like.”

 

Dorian's smile is bright and with a powerful flap he takes off, his impressive wingspan catching light as he climbs. John can hear him laughing, a purely gleeful sound, and it's infectious—John can't resist chuckling as Dorian turns a corkscrew loop.

 

Dorian lands again a few long minutes later, still staring wistfully up at the clouds as he shakes out his wings and folds them up against his back. “Thank you,” he says with absolute sincerity, “thank you, John.”

 

“No problem.” John turns and begins walking back toward the car. “C'mon. Time to go back.”

 

“Taking me back to Rudy's?” Dorian asks as he slides into the passenger's seat.

 

John starts the car, buckles in and starts down the road. “You got anywhere else in mind?”

 

The android shrugs. “I just figured maybe you'd want help with your feathers.”

 

John's knuckles go white as he grips the steering wheel harder than he should. It's a frighteningly pleasant thought and John gives a slightly strangled “No, no,” before he can say something stupid like 'yes.'

 

Dorian gives a slight shrug. “If you change your mind, let me know. I'm good at it.”

 

 _He's good at it?_ How would he know? A strange sort of jealousy flares up through John's chest. Has he been touching someone else's wings? Maybe Rudy's; God knows he needs it, his downy mouse-brown feathers constantly in disarray. Hell, maybe the MXes, with their sleek shiny black wings that match their sleek black suits.

 

“I'll let you know,” John says, shaking himself.

 

-

 

John holds out exactly one week and two days. He's sitting at his desk reviewing a case file and he can hardly focus at all, the small rounded feathers at the base of his synthetic wing dry and crooked and sticking out at unfortunate angles and it _itches_ , it itches like blue fire. Hell, the feathers at the base of his _real_ wing aren't much better.

 

Dorian approaches with a flexi-display, sets it quietly on John's desk next to his keyboard, and he turns to go back to his holoscreen where he'd been cross-referencing cold-case data with their current case. “Dorian?” John calls, the word tumbling out before he can stop it.

 

“Yeah, man?” Dorian turns back around to look at John, leaning against his desk.

 

For a second John hesitates but then he shifts and the dry synthetic feathers twinge painfully against his gun holster and impulsiveness wins. “Does that offer you made last week still stand?”

 

Dorian's reply is instant. “Of course, John.”

 

“Tonight, then?” John hopes to God that he isn't blushing, fuck, that would be embarrassing. He tries for gruffness. “I'll pay you back somehow.”

 

“No need,” Dorian says on a small smile. “Tonight's great.”

 

John nods and turns back to his computer, and he tries extremely hard not to look like a schoolgirl with a crush.

 

-

 

John suffers through the rest of the day, but god, it _is_ suffering. Finally his and Dorian's shift is over and he waits at the precinct's front doors for Dorian.

He's beginning to second-guess this. What if this is when he gets the inevitable pity from Dorian, what if this is when he gets the 'you really should fly' talk. What is he doing, he should call this off--

 

\--but his wings itch _so bad_ , and it's with a strange lurch that he realizes Dorian's the only one he trusts enough to help him with this.

 

Dorian appears at his side like a wraith, startling him out of his thoughts. “We ready to go?” he asks, and he actually looks excited for this. “Haven't changed your mind, have you?”

 

“Hell no. Come on, into the car with you.”

 

-

 

“The best place to do this is... hm,” he thinks for a second, the side of his face lighting up just a bit. “We could sit on your bed, or you could sit on the floor in front of the sofa.”

 

The idea of taking Dorian into his bedroom was far too nice a thought and John knew that was a road he should not go down, so he says “Couch, definitely couch,” so quickly that it's surely awkward.

 

Dorian rolls with it, of course he does, though he does twitch half a smirk before he settles down on the sofa, perched at the edge of the cushion, and beckons for John to sit before him. This is it, John thinks, last chance to back out. He doesn't, he doesn't back out; he sits down between Dorian's legs with his back to him.

 

“John?”

 

“What?”

 

“This will work better if you actually unfold your wings, man.”

 

“Oh.”

 

His wings feel old and creaky as he slowly unfurls them, but it feels good to give them a stretch nonetheless. His apartment has this big open living room, so his wingspan is easily accommodated. “Wow,” Dorian breathes. “The color is outstanding.”

 

John can't help the pride that begins welling in his chest at that. “I inherited it from my mom.” Her wings had been too small to carry her but they'd been a beautiful tawny golden brown, mottled with white and darker bronze, and John had been so overjoyed when he shed his fluffy gray baby feathers and grew in his adult plumage and it looked almost exactly like hers.

 

“She did well in passing them to you,” Dorian praises, and John's about to say something else, warmth seeping through him, when he feels Dorian's fingers touch the downy soft feathers of his synthetic wing, right at the base where it meets his back.

 

Instantly, automatically and on complete instinct, the wing defensively snaps shut, resisting the touch. “Sorry. Sorry, not used to this,” he grits out, clamping his eyes shut and willing his wing to un-tense again.

 

“It's okay, man. I'm not gonna hurt you.”

 

“I _know_ , okay? Don't baby me, for Christ's sake.” John grumbles and stretches his wings out once more. “Have at it. Knock yourself out.”

 

John's ready for it when Dorian touches his wing again. The urge to snap his wing shut still remains for a split second but he wills the limb to remain extended and the urge quickly subsides. Dorian's gentle, carefully working his feathers from the bottom up, smoothing them down, straightening them out. John sighs quietly, relaxing just a touch. Some of John's feathers are particularly messed up, and Dorian has to take a few seconds to slowly coax them back into laying flat.

 

The seam between synthetic wing and human skin is difficult to locate, normally, but Dorian finds it instantly, a hand moving to that space beneath one of John's secondary shoulderblades, near where his feathers end. Dorian forgoes preening for a moment and just gently rubs against he muscle with his thumbs. It's shocking how good it feels, and John draws in a breath so quickly it's more like a hiss. Instantly Dorian draws back. “Sorry,” he says, “I didn't--”

 

“No, no,” John says quickly, shaking his head. “It was good. It felt good, didn't hurt.”

 

Dorian gives a sigh of relief and John swears he can actually hear the android grin. His fingertips gently press once more, a little harder, working the knotted muscle. “You're all tensed up here,” Dorian says, gently pressing at the knotted muscle. “That's probably why the wing is constantly beeping at you.”

 

John hums. “Not constant,” he mumbles, pressing back automatically against Dorian's clever hands.

 

“It's pretty constant,” Dorian insists, fingers working at the jagged seam between synthetic and organic for a few moments longer before moving up into the synthetic alone. “Do you still feel this?”

 

“Yeah.” John's synthetic wing has a multitude of sensors that connect intricately to his nervous system; he feels it just like he feels the wing he was born with. Just like he feels with his synthetic leg. Dorian gives a hum of approval as he begins smoothing down feathers once more.

 

It feels _good_. Christ, it feels good. Dorian's methodical but he works quickly, and soon John's entire wingspan is in perfect shape. “Give them a stretch,” he says.

 

John blinks, almost sleepy—god, he'd relaxed completely, become liquid in Dorian's hands. He's disappointed that it's over. He shakes himself and stretches out his wings before folding them back up; his feathers fold into place perfect and flat and smooth, and John grins. “You weren't kidding when you said you were good at this,” he praises. Dorian looks pleased with himself. It's cute, and John can't help smiling as he hauls himself back to his feet. “Your turn. On the floor with you.”

 

Dorian's eyes widen and he stares up at John, his jaw actually dropping slightly. “What?”

 

“I'm returning the favor.” The smart thing to do would have been to kick Dorian the hell out but he found he couldn't. He doesn't want this to end. “Now do you want me to or not?”

 

“John, there's no need. I'm capable of preening my own wings.”

 

John raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Wow. You're pretty bendy.” He shakes his head. “But I didn't ask about that, did I? Look, do you want my hands on your feathers or not?”

 

It's a long moment that Dorian just looks at him before he quietly says “Yes, John, I do.”

 

“Then sit down already,” John says, gruff as he can manage. Dorian obeys, sinking to the ground as John settles on the sofa. Dorian's wings unfold as soon as he's settled; they're wide and relaxed so that the tips touch the ground, and John just takes a moment to marvel.

 

“Wow,” he breathes, and reaches out tentatively to touch the feathers at the base of one wing. They don't look exactly real; the feathers are a bit too smooth, a bit too uniform. But they _feel_ real under his fingers—they feel like how feathers should feel, like water sliding across your fingers.

 

Dorian stiffens, takes a breath as soon as John touches him. “Oh,” he sighs, and it's not a 'stop' sound, so John gently finger-combs the feathers into place, slow and steady. “Oh, that's—that's different, it's, it's different when I do it.”

 

John blinks, stops for a second. “Am I doing it wrong? You complaining?”

 

“No, no, it just—it just feels different when it's someone else,” he explains swiftly, “it—it feels better.”

 

John would have laughed except Dorian sounds so sincere, keeps making these soft, approving hums; John works slowly down Dorian's left wing, taking more time than is necessary, lingering too long; if this is Dorian's first time he should make it good, right?

 

He's about halfway down the wing when Dorian gives a long sigh, tips his head back, slowly rolls his shoulders and presses his wing against John's hand. His eyes are shut and there's a smile on his features. To be honest, it's terrifyingly hot and it's more than a little scary how much John loves it. He finds himself grinning in response and keeps working down the wing, carefully replacing errant feathers and reshaping ones with their vanes out of whack.

 

The split second he touches one of Dorian's long primary flight feathers, Dorian lets out a soft, staticky noise one associates more with the radio than with a humanoid being. John stops instantly. “What was that?!” he asks, blinking.

 

“I—My control of my voice was, it was slipping when you were—doing that,” Dorian says, haltingly, “It—it was distracting me.”

 

“From your own voice?” So that static noise was Dorian's equivalent of an involuntary moan. An odd warmth sparks in John's chest.

 

“Yeah, I'll try to mute them--”

 

“No. Don't,” he says, and touches Dorian's flight feathers again, fixing the splits in the vane, runs his fingers down each of them. He can feel Dorian's wings quivering, can see the lights at his temple and the tops of each wing going wild. Best, he can hear those tiny little sounds, static and garbled vocals. He finds himself wondering if Dorian would make those noises in bed. Would they get louder? Would they get worse? John swallows hard and moves on to the second wing. This one isn't as out-of-place as the other, and it's a quicker job but John finds himself lingering. Dorian's eyes are closed, his head tipped back to expose the long line of his throat, his lips are parted and he's beautiful.

 

And it's that exact second, with his fingers buried in synthetic feathers, that John realizes he's in love with Dorian. Full-out, wedding bells, buy a house and adopt a cat, for better or for worse  _l_ _ove_. He can't imagine life without him, can't imagine existing without him by his side and it's the most terrifying thing he's ever, ever experienced. “You've stopped,” Dorian says, his eyes fluttering open. “Is something wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost, man.”

 

Dorian looks concerned, bless his artificial heart. “Uh,” John says, floundering, “I was just. Wondering why you had your disco face on,” he blurted out. “Looking on the internet for something? Watching re-runs of some soap opera? This not exciting enough for you? I'm hurt.”

 

Dorian gives a lopsided smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “No,” he says, “I was. I was just... recording this. Memorizing it.”

 

John blinks. “You remember everything.”

 

“Better than regular memory. I was—recording it in high-def. Straight into long-term permanent storage. I want to make sure to remember this, John,” he says quietly, and he's looking up at John with those earnest blue eyes and his disco face is _still_ blazing and John isn't quite sure what possesses him to do it but maybe it's just that he can't hold back any longer (or maybe it's that he just had his hands all over his wings and it feels like they've skipped a step on the intimacy ladder); but whatever causes it, the result is the same. John leans down and presses his lips to Dorian's, upside-down, and it reminds him of that vintage Spiderman movie in a way and he's too distracted to laugh—Dorian responds instantly, reaching up to run his fingers through John's hair and kissing back for all he's worth. Dorian's warm and soft and he tastes like sweetened steel and John wonders why he hadn't done this sooner.

 

He does have to pull back to breathe after a moment and the second he does, Dorian scrambles up into his lap in a flurry of feathers and flailing limbs. “We shouldn't be doing this,” Dorian says right before he leans in and kisses John again, arms wrapping around John's neck as John's hands shamelessly find their way up Dorian's shirt.

 

John kisses back a few seconds before he pulls away long enough to say “Absolutely. This is definitely against police protocol,” and then surge up to kiss him again, wings pressing against the back of the couch to offer him the leverage.

 

“This is really illegal,” Dorian observes breathlessly against John's lips as he starts hurriedly unbuttoning John's shirt, fumbling a bit—and isn't that a fucking ego trip, he's making a robot _fumble_.

 

“I said you should break a law now and then, it looks good on you,” John replies, and as Dorian throws his shirt aside and pushes him onto the couch a little harder, John grins at the sight of those blue lights dancing bright again.

 

They don't stop.

 

-

 

They've just closed their latest case and it's four in the morning by the time the paperwork is over. Dorian's staying with John now, but he still has a charger at Rudy's that he was able to snatch some power from; his battery's at around a quarter capacity, which isn't terrible. He's jumpy, though, as that fast-charger is wont to make him; he's got a persistent tremor, his leg bounces. They're in the car and Dorian's having a hard time keeping still.

 

“You gotta shake off some of that energy, man. You'll keep me up all night like this. And not in the fun way,” John says. “You wanna go flying?”

 

Dorian blinks and looks over at him. “Nah, man it's cool, I'll just--”

 

“You want to.”

 

“Yeah, but it's not necess--”

 

“The park it is,” John says decisively. “Look, it'll help me relax to see you flyin' around.”

 

\- 

 

Dorian looks like he's being pulled to the park by magnetic force as they get out of the car. John chuckles and slides his hands into his pockets, watching as Dorian's wings spread and he takes to the sky with no preamble at all.

 

John's wings have never been in better shape. Dorian definitely seems to enjoy grooming them, and John certainly isn't going to complain. Dorian living with him has been the best decision ever made, in his opinion. Dorian, a synthetic, his live-in boyfriend. His _partner_. Who takes bullets for him, protects him, catches him when he falls.

 

Dorian lands after a long few minutes, alighting before John and shaking out his feathers. “Thank you,” he says, “that—that was nice.”

 

“What, you done already?” John asks. “You just got here, man.”

 

“Yeah, but... I don't wanna keep you here waiting for me. That's inconsiderate.”

 

 _Oh_. John looks down, a crooked smile gracing his lips. “I guess I don't have much of an excuse not to fly anymore, right? My, uh, my feathers are perfect, thanks to you.”

 

“You don't need an excuse,” Dorian says, “it's your choice, John.”

 

God, there it was. There was why John loved him. “You know, I... I was always--afraid,” he says, “that if I tried to fly, the wing wouldn't hold me up. That it'd drop me.” Slowly he spreads his wings. "How dumb is that, huh?" The synthetics closest to him are never going to let him down. He can trust them, can trust the machine knitted into his bones just as much as the one knitted into his heart.

 

Dorian's eyes are wide. “John?”

 

The wind begins to rustle through his synthetic and organic feathers; it feels good, cool and exhilarating and he hasn't even left the ground. His heart beats hard in his chest, adrenaline pounding in his blood. “Just fly with me, Dorian.”

 

Dorian does, they take to the sky, and for the first time in a long time, John is fearless.

 

**Author's Note:**

> see what did i tell you. i am sorry  
> (title from Jonothan Coulton's "Now I Am An Arsonist" which I highly recommend giving a listen to)


End file.
